April 14, 2008

At least a small part of me kind of feels bad about what happened to Cleveland in last year's ALCS. When it was the Yankees, the series comeback was just a karmic boomerang I was happy to see fly. When it was the Indians, the image of Victor Martinez in tears on the dugout rail as the Sox celebrated took the wind out of my sails just a little bit. I'm not saying I'm sorry the Sox won. But I also knew how they felt on the other side.

The Indians came in to this game having won just three of their last seven games. But they were coming off a 7-1 win against Oakland, and were leading by one run in the top of the ninth. They had not won two games back-to-back since Opening Day and the game that followed.

Then, Indians closer Joe Borowski imploded in on himself out there on the mound, first letting Julio Lugo cross the plate for the tying run, and then giving up an absolute bomb to Manny Ramirez, leaving the score 6-4 Sox.

The Indians players in the dugout looked blank. Some of them looked toward the field, but seemed to be staring off into space, as Papelbon put in a hellfire-and-brimstone performance to cap off the Sox comeback. The only Indian to get a bat anywhere near his fastball was Travis Hafner, who gave the ball a high arcing ride to the warning track in straightaway center, but it was caught there by Coco Crisp.

Eric Wedge was shown in the dugout, also looking toward the field. But he was not as expressionless as his players. In fact, his face clearly communicated, as he watched Papelbon slice and dice his hitters, that he was just waiting for it all to be over.

I've blown a lot of hot air around on this blog defending the Sox and Sox fans since we've been on top. But I could understand it if they hated us in Cleveland.

P.S. Papi managed to get a little bloop hit to left field tonight. I guess we should be glad they unearthed the jersey.

There really is nothing like taking the rubber game of a series. It's such a feeling of relief--and when it happens, as last night's rubber victory did, late on a Sunday night, it can brighten my mood for the whole first half of the week. Or, at least, it can avoid darkening it by adding losing to late-night sleep-deprivation injury.

Seriously, why do they put the ESPN games on at like midnight on Sunday night?

In any event, we got to see another solid outing from Daisuke last night, although like most of our starting pitchers, he's still using up pitches at an alarming rate, and just barely lasted through the fifth inning. This was, in general, another one of those classic painstaking Sox-Yankees matchup, in which every hitter is seeing so many pitches that the game drags...and drags...and drags...I thought it might be Monday morning before that fifth inning finally ended and Daisuke could leave with a decent start--but with four long, long, LONG innings for the beleagured Sox bullpen to cover.

I'm not sure if this 120-pitches-by-the-fifth thing is just a typical early-season habit for starters; a sign we should be worried; or just a sign we were playing the Yankees, who seem to adopt almost the exact same strategy of patience at the plate and a pitch-by-pitch approach to creating runs in tense games as the Sox, which makes them last approximately an ice age.

And then we got into the first full-on Yankees game stress for me this season. I don't know about you, but for our bullpen--without Hideki Okajima or Jonathan Papelbon available--to have to soak up that many outs against even a relatively depleted Yankees lineup (Captain Intangibles was sidelined and Posada seemed to be in a somewhat limited role this series) had me reaching for the extra-strength antacids.

The one contributing the most of any Red Sox to my gastritis was Mike Timlin. My father started calling him "Whiplash" (for how frequently he had to turn around to watch hits sail over his head) as early as 2005 and was heard to doubt Iron Mike as far back as 2004. I've always defended Mike--even to the point of exasperated gesticulating--but this year, I can't.

The reasons for this are not hard to grasp--the man has an 81.00 ERA. Small sample size, etc. But Timlin's matchup (or lack thereof) against Jason Giambi this series is what really bothered me. According to MLB.com, Timlin's record against Giambi in the past was limited, but good. In five total matchups between the two since 2005, Timlin has given up exactly one run to Giambi and no home runs (MLB.com unfortunately didn't return 2007 stats; it could be the two didn't face each other, I suppose). Even according to Baseball Prospectus's sp00ky PECOTA page, which repeatedly acknowledges his advanced age, Timlin is only projected to give up 4 home runs in 41.7 innings pitched this entire season. But in this series, he gave up a homer to the Juice Guy each time he saw him.

I know Timlin's still probably getting his act together after having to get his finger stitched up, and I know he hasn't had a chance to even things out over the long run, but I also think age has quite a lot to do with what we're seeing from him at this point--especially given his lack of success against a hitter like Giambi, with whom he's previously matched up well (I know a lot of people don't give Tito this much credit, but I like to think that's why Mike was even out there facing Giambi in the first place these past couple of nights).

Timlin's been an iron man for a very long time, and I love his crazed personality as much as the next person (BP calls him 'straight out of central casting') but it's starting to look (even more than it already has) like the Red Sox should've let Mad Mike ride off into the sunset this past off-season, and just let us enjoy his memory.

UPDATE: Mike Timlin just recorded three crisp outs in Cleveland, making me look like a complete ass for posting this. Oh, well. This is clearly why I am not the one sitting in the dugout every night, rocking and chewing tobacco with bubble gum.

April 13, 2008

P.S. BTW, just in case I'm not the last person in the Western hemisphere to realize this, iTunes now has every game of last year's postseason, as well as a set of full classic games under the collection name 'Baseball's Best', which includes Game 6 of the 1975 World Series and Games 4 and 5 of the 2004 ALCS. So now you can have all essential Sox games in portable form. Ain't technology grand?

The above is my new favorite moment of the season so far. It's early yet, and so that favorite might change as soon as today, but as Papel-blog's Kelly once commented on this blog, "Every time Jason Varitek pats Papelbon on the head and/or upper back area, I'm pretty sure that God cures the broken leg of a small kitten."

The talk of the fans I know today is Jonathan Papelbon's appearance last night, closing out the second of two games against the Yankees, both of which were complicated by an incorrigible, on-again, off-again rain.

I was watching once again in Brookline, and we all roundly and vociferously cursed FOX for switching to NASCAR with two outs in the top of the ninth and a full count. I know there's such a thing as contractual obligation, but that was absolutely ridiculous. If they were going to switch, they should've switched during the delay, to give people time to, say, figure out where FX is on their cable. By the time we found the game again, Dustin Pedroia was just tossing the ball to Sean Casey for the final out, and having missed even a single heater from Papelbon is something about which I remain bitter today.

Add this to the long list of reasons FOX sucks: we already knew that they weren't competent sports broadcasters (see also, Zelasko, Jeannie and McCarver, Tim), but yesterday they weren't even competent broadcasters, period. It isn't like they didn't have time to plan ahead--the rain was well forecast before and during the game, there was more than one return of the tarp to the field, giving them time to switch, and at any rate, Sox-Yankees games usually run long. Was there any reason to force people to fumble with their remotes with a full count and two outs in the ninth inning of a one-run Red Sox-Yankees game? Is NASCAR really a more valuable TV property for FOX than that?

Okay, I'm over it. Well, I'm really not, but let's get back to Jonathan Papelbon and how much of a complete and total stud he is for blowing 96 miles per hour past Yankees from a wet mound after having to warm up and sit back down twice. With the shape the rest of our bullpen has been in so far this season, I shudder to think what ugliness might have kept those watching FX from returning to their regularly scheduled Terminator 3 yesterday afternoon, had Papelbon not been able to perform.

Similarly, if it weren't for Manny Ramirez swinging the big lumber (and a followup RBI from my emerging binky, Kevin Youkilis), we'd also probably have been looking at a different outcome. While I know the idea of a team is for everyone to take turns contributing, I have to say the continued, shall we say, concentration of contributions coming from some people and not others is killing my April baseball buzz already. Like the Bud commercial says, Leon can't do everything. I'm looking at you, Manny Delcarmen.

Still, thank God for the team's leaders yesterday, including Josh, who pitched a now-forgotten masterful 5 innings before being left in about two batters too long in the sixth, going somewhat pear-shaped, and becoming a footnote to Papelbon. Various talking heads kept saying how his pitching line really didn't match the dominance of his effort in the early innings, but to me "dominant" does not equal 3 runs and just over 6 innings, no matter which way you slice it.

I'd rather say Beckett has looked encouraging in both of his starts so far, both times busting out guns blazing in the early innings, but running out of gas earlier than usual. I think journalists and broadcasters like to use words like "dominant" because it draws eyeballs and ears, but to me, "dominant" isn't accurate, especially if you're talking about the Texas-style all-day-long-country-ass-whupping domination Beckett is capable of laying down, when said about a less-than-seven-inning effort. So chalk this up as the first known instance of me being less sanguine about Josh Beckett than the broadcasters. At least, since 2006.

Meanwhile, between Beckett and Jonathan, it's clear my dad and I ended up at the wrong game this week--we were there in person for Friday night's game, a decent effort by Buchholz in his first-ever start against the Yankees, that wound up being spoiled by Mike Timlin and Jason Giambi, not to mention a strange and frustrating game for the bats, as one by one Red Sox hitters socked the ball deep into the damp night, only to have it directed as if by otherworldly forces into the gloves of Yankees outfielders. About the only one to break on through to the other side was J.D. Drew, who clearly at this point is just trying to taunt me.

April 11, 2008

Last night I finally got to see two things I've been waiting for: Papelbon pitching at Fenway, and Papelbon's Dunkin' Donuts commercial.

Of course, I didn't get to see his introduction in the eighth inning, which is really the best part. NESN may have shown it, but I was at a friend's house and it got lost in channel-flipping. Also, I forgot to set my TiVo to record on CN8 last night, because I forgot that NESN was showing the stupid Bruins getting creamed by stupid Montreal.

But even without seeing what I'm sure was an overwhelming reception, you could feel the electricity hanging in the air throughout his appearance. I've been at the ballpark and seen it--that's the feeling of everyone on the edge of their seat, paying rapt attention, waiting for that filthy heater to make quick work of the opposition.

Papelbon's greatest contribution was in the 8th, when he took over for a flailing Julian Tavarez, who'd turned a five-run lead into a save situation again. Even the ESPN play-by-play page shows Papelbon's effectiveness:

Look at all that green, signifying run-scoring plays, courtesy of Tavarez. And then just that serene little black line at the bottom. It took Tavarez 21 pitches to let the Tigers fire up the merry-go-round; it took Papelbon exactly two to bring it to a shuddering halt.

Have I mentioned lately that I think he's, you know, pretty awesome? Have I made that clear enough on this site?

After the Sox gang-banged Bazardo to tack on four more runs in the bottom of the inning, Jonathan seemed to lose a little bit of his adrenaline and focus. I wish they'd returned him to the lead-lined, down-filled, temperature-controlled, armored and guarded enclosure I've asked them to keep him in when he's not out there unleashing flames toward home plate, but I suppose there's also no point in firing him all the way up just for two pitches.

Without the Eye of the Tiger going for him, though, Papelbon faltered a bit, giving up two hits before finally turning on Marcus Thames with a look in his eyes that would melt iron, getting squeezed on strike one, earning a mighty empty swing on what should have been strike two, and then getting him to ground out and end the game. And the moments I'd been waiting for were over. At least, until next time.

Or until the next commercial break. I realize this may damage my street cred with some members of the baseball public, but I have to confess that when he cracked that cocky little smile after the first chick slapped him on the ass in that Dunk's commercial, I got just the tiniest bit lightheaded.

Other than that, it was just funny, especially if you picture the filming as Papel-blog did: "Do you think the director offered to use a stand-in ass for all the parts where you only see him from the waist down and Papelbon totally refused?" (Surviving Grady is on the spot with the news that, as they put it, "a stunt ass was used.")

Still, between the pantsless celebrations last season and this latest bit of work, it really does seem that, for some reason, Papelbon wants us all to have a personal relationship with his ass.

April 10, 2008

We all have that one player. That one guy that you grow irrationally attached to, the guy that reminds you of someone or maybe even yourself, the guy you'll defend to even your fellow fans when they all turn against him, the guy you keep rooting for even when he's dispensed with his Red Sox laundry, and often, a chequered Red Sox career.

For my dad, that player is Edgar Renteria. He also has had a soft spot in his heart for Alex Gonzalez, but the one that really gets people scratching their heads around my dad is Edgar, or as he would say it, "My boy Edgah."

Throughout Edgar's lackluster tenure in a Red Sox uniform, my father was determined to defend him at every turn, and has not stopped doing it since. "See?" he'd say whenever ESPN reported on Edgar's more successful season with the Atlanta Braves in 2006. "My boy Edgah. He's a good playah."

It was no exception last night, when Edgar once again re-entered what had been an errorful house of horrors in Fenway Park, this time as a member of the Detroit Tigers.

And it was Edgar who killed us yesterday. He went 3 for 4 with 2 RBI, as well as a walk, and picked it deep in the hole at short, like it had been some other guy who committed 30 errors there three seasons ago.

As someone who actively booed Edgar Renteria when he was a member of the Red Sox (and it's not something I'm proud of, but he's probably the only player on my own team I've ever done that to), I wonder where that effort and sense of urgency were when he was here, and can't say I've worked up much but disdain for the fact that apparently he's motivated by his own failure with the Sox to prove a point as a member of an opposing team, but actually being paid by the Sox evidently wasn't enough motivation to show that same intensity. You could say I'm the yin to my dad's yang--as irrationally hateful toward Edgar as he is perhaps unrealistically loving.

But my dad sees him as shy and diplomatic rather than wishy-washy, taciturn and listless. He always admired the way he took in the catcalls and kept on quietly grinding away. And last night, on the phone from the front row of the State Street Pavilion, my dad was the one silver lining on a messy game for me, waxing enthusiastic and proud of his boy Edgah.

P.S. Mikey Lowell! Noooo, etc. But I'm also taking a moment to be grateful for the Sean Casey signing--the man they call the Mayor filled in for Lowell nicely with two hits and a run. And for Kevin Youkilis, the first baseman that takes a licking and keeps on ticking (I wonder what the bruise from that wicked shot he took off the collarbone last night looks like today) at just about any old base you want. It's not cool to lose Lowell, but it could be far, far worse.

April 08, 2008

One of the most amazing moments in my experience with the Boston Red Sox took place at Fenway Park today, and it wasn't a part of either the ring ceremony or the game.

The ring ceremony had been a glossy production of pomp and circumstance, complete with an unruly 2007 Monster-sized championship banner and a truly touching scene between Johnny Pesky and the rest of the ring recipients, who could be heard calmly encouraging him as he struggled to haul up the 2007 flag.

It was less well-produced in some ways than the 2004 ceremony--I still don't understand why they didn't introduce the players aloud when they came out to get their rings, because it honestly sometimes sounded like the crowd wasn't into it. I wonder if that's because anyone seated more than 20 feet away from the home dugout might not have had a clue who they were looking at half the time.

Still, I thought I had experienced true Sox Zen when I watched Mike Timlin greet Curtis Leskanic (who had been entrusted somehow with the 04 trophy) for the first time in years; when I watched Oki and Papelbon stand together and quietly admire their rings; when I watched Manny point to his ring box and say to Johnny Pesky, "this is for you"; when the camera zoomed in on Jonathan Papelbon popping his gum enthusiastically as the fighter jets flew over during the Star-Spangled Banner.

But as it turned out, I was unprepared for what would follow Joe Castiglione's next lines in the script.

"Now it's time to welcome the star who will throw our ceremonial first pitch, on this day that we honor champions."

The Boston Pops were packing up. Grounds crew and volunteers were hustling back and forth with folding chairs and rakes. A buzz was building as people resumed conversations. The fireworks seemed to be over.

"And how happy we are, that amidst this celebration and joy, this Red Sox alumnus has come back to join us."

"Dave Roberts," I encouraged.

"He amassed Hall of Fame-caliber credentials in his 21-year Major League career, and the Red Sox would never have won the 1986 American League Pennant without him--"

"No," I said out loud to my TV screen. "No freaking way."

"--won't you please welcome back to Boston, and let him know that he is welcome always. Number 6--"

"Holy shit."

"Bill! Buckner!"

He came out from among the soldiers anchoring the huge American flag at the base of the Monster. By the time he'd reached center field, as Bobby Orr and Bill Russell and Tedy Bruschi and every single person at Fenway Park stood up and clapped for him, he was wiping away tears.

Dwight Evans stood at home plate in a jersey with a glove, ready to catch the first pitch. The camera slowly circled Buckner as he stood on the mound in the middle of Fenway Park. The crowd gave him a five minute standing ovation, while my goosebumps grew goosebumps.

It's not that it's so amazing that we've collectively 'forgiven' him--that, in fact, is only proper, a return to reality from a clearly insane injustice of the past. What had me in such awe is that he's forgiven us.(Title: -François Mauriac (via)

April 07, 2008

Opening Day - Tokyo. Opening Day - Oakland. Opening Day - Toronto. Two
weeks and three road trips to three countries in three different time
zones. That's enough. Bring them back home.

I'm still not in midseason form yet as a fan, if by 'midseason form'
you mean 'curling up into the fetal position and cursing all
descendants of Julio Lugo over a loss'. Or even the milder
'prioritizing baseball over all other activities of daily life', which
I did not do for most of this weekend (except for geeking out about
Beckett's return. In fact, I'd like to nominate that for recognition as
a fifth Opening Day).

A big part of this is because, in my mind, it's not really, fully
baseball season until the Sox come back to Fenway. That's even more true this time around, because there's still a ring ceremony to get to
before settling down to the business of 2008.

This year, I could've been there - a mixup with work meant I missed
my chance. And yes, I am very bitter.

But even on television--even on TiVoed television--it's just
not right until I see the deep green interior of our lyrical little
bandbox behind the faces of our players.

And there's one more thing I find myself still needing to check off my 'baseball cravings' list this spring, now
that my Beckett withdrawal has been taken care of - I need to see
Jonathan Papelbon introduced at Fenway Park.

I need to feel the
gathering energy, even through my TV screen, as the crowd anticipates
his name. I need to hear the frenzy they break into when it comes. I
need to watch him bow his head at the edge of the warning track,
fist-bump the cop, and come trotting over his home turf to save the
day.It's amazing how quickly this collective ritual between crowd and cop
and Papelbon has come to embody Red Sox baseball for me.

As far as I'm
concerned, it's been too long coming, and it cannot get here soon enough.

April 06, 2008

There was one pitch Josh Beckett threw today that I've been waiting six months to see. It ended the second inning with David Eckstein at the plate, a vicious 97-mph two-seam fastball that took a hard right turn on its way to Varitek's glove, unhittable filth that sent its author sauntering off the field looking quite pleased with himself, and appeared to my welcoming eyes like a fix to a jonesing junkie. A pitching junkie, that is.

In the first three innings, Beckett attacked the game with the hunger of a starved predator, hitting 99 on the perhaps inflated NESN radar gun (Tito referred to him hitting 94 and 95, not 97 and 99 as shown on the TV broadcast.). It might not have been the wisest approach, looking back on how meteorically his pitch count shot up, but it was this Josh I'd been missing, and this Josh I'd wanted to see, full of piss and vinegar even rattling around in the empty tin can that is the Rogers Centre on the third home game in April, getting down with his bad self out there even if only for a few innings.

Clearly, I'm still in the honeymoon phase with baseball. It hit me today that I'm still just so glad to be able to focus my
attention on a team not in the business of losing championship games to members
of the Manning family and committing rule infractions that lead to
Congressional hearings, that it's hard to get too worked up over things like losing a seventh straight regular-season game in Toronto. Although Julio Lugo might want to watch his back.

A few more random thoughts on the games this week:

It seems Daisuke has overhauled his mechanics, drastically simplifying his motion and staying vertically centered instead of falling off the mound at an angle. It reminds me of what I've seen both Jonathan Papelbon and Josh Beckett develop during their time with John Farrell, who seems to have a knack for trimming wasteful and inefficient motion from a pitcher's delivery.

Dustin Pedroia. There's nothing more delightful than watching him leap approximately six feet in the air to snag a sinking liner and then land on his feet, grinning at teammates hollering disbelieving catcalls from the dugout. I vastly prefer this to the way he flung himself around in fruitless belly-flops in the previous three or four games.

I greatly enjoyed the aggressive way Kevin Youkilis played his 194th error-free game this week. He sought out pop-ups from deep in the infield to deep in foul territory, and dug relays across the infield out of the dirt, putting a flourish on his entrance to the record books.

Today JD Drew hit a game-tying home run just as I was cussing him out pre-emptively. Manny Ramirez made a sensational wall-climbing catch that saved Beckett's bacon just as my Dad was bashing him. Somehow, our irrational hatred must fuel them.

Reason No. 15,623 why I welcome the return of NESN almost as much as I welcome the return of baseball itself: the little montage of Josh and Halladay set to "Wanted, Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi that began today's broadcast. The 'cowboy' machismo of that song is perfect for both Texas-born Josh and the opponent teammates have nicknamed "Doc."

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